LUCILLE CHRISTIAN admitted Mr. Munn into the hall when he
arrived at the Christian place just after dark.
" I'm sorry I couldn't get out for supper," he told her. " It
was nice of you all to ask me. But I had more work than I
could get through this afternoon/'
" We were sorry," she said. She pushed the door closed,
and though it was heavy it swung soundlessly on the hinges.
Then she stood there with her hand on the knob, not as
though waiting for him to speak or move, but as though he
were not there at all, as though she could sink at will into
the deep and complete satisfaction of her own being. The
light from the lamp on the marble-topped table gave her
dark blue, too-large eyes a velvety appearance, and gave the
flesh of her face a faint gold tinge, as though an almost
infinitesimal amount of light had been captured by the flesh
itself and was now released. Mr. Munn glanced at the flesh
of her arm under the lace insertion of the sleeve, trying to
determine if that golden tinge was caught there too, but he
could not tell.
Actually, she stood there for only an instant, balancing
herself at the end of the gesture that had closed the door;
but it was long enough to give him that impression of com-
plete stillness, of absorbed repose, which he had discovered,
with surprise, that day of the rally when she had stood in
the middle of the floor of the shadowy, dull room at the
" The others are already here," she said. " In the parlour."
" The others"? he thought wonderingly.
She moved across the hall briskly and laid her hand on the
knob of a closed door. Her waist was small and straight,
where the lawn was gathered at the wide, embroidered belt*